The Power of Loyalty
by Trumpet Lover
Summary: A tale of three wizards and the power of loyalty.  Mentions of torture, presented in four parts.  AD, SS, HP friendship
1. Blue

_A tale of three wizards and the power of loyalty. Mentions of torture, presented in four parts. _

_Characters: Albus Dumbledore, Severus Snape, Harry Potter, Tom Riddle_

_Friendship (non-slash)_

* * *

**The Power of Loyalty**

_**Chapter One: Blue**_

For one to have lived as long as he had, experienced as much pain and hurt as he had, it was difficult to get truly angry. There were few people who could turn his eyes steely blue, rid them of their typical twinkle. There were even fewer people who could cause his magic to react, who could drive him to make windows explode or walls bend with his anger and distress.

It wasn't that he was a strong wizard, per se. Many said he was, of course. That he was the most powerful wizard in the world. He didn't believe that to be true. He was, true, greater at reasoning than most, and the dealings with his sister had taught him much humility, and much restraint. His power came from much gathering of knowledge, some of it rather obscure. But the largest portion of his power came from his loyalty. It seemed, perhaps, that many were loyal to him, but it was often, and truly, the other way around. He was deeply protective of those under his charge, especially the two boys that were currently vexing him.

As it was, the walls of the school, of his office, were bending inward around him. A number of delicate items around his room had long since exploded. He could hear the castle groaning in distress, could hear its protests, but he could do nothing. His emotional turmoil was rather high at the moment.

He took a deep sigh, clearing his head, but doing little for his anger. He could do no good for his boys if he was unable to do anything about the fury coursing through his veins. The walls boomeranged outward, as far as they had inwards, and finally settled back to normal. The school groaned happily. He walked over to a wall, between a portrait of a particularly old headmaster (although this man had not been older than he was currently, he certainly looked as if he was nearly dead) and a very colorful one (refused to wear anything but neon colors throughout his duration). He placed his right hand on the wall, then his left thumb squarely on the colorful wizard's dog's nose. The bricks shifted subtly, and he reached his hand into the wall. The castle accepted his arm, and he picked up the staff that was inside.

The Aurors had said that they couldn't get inside, that the location was too heavily warded. They had said that snake-face himself was not outside, but that his patrolling Death Eaters had injured a rather large number of Aurors and Order members. They had said that it was impossible to penetrate, that the defenses were too strong.

They didn't have his anger, and they didn't have his staff. The staff was an old one, ancient really, that he had obtained after a rather odd set of coincidences that weren't really necessary to discuss. It was powerful, but only in certain hands. It was powerful in the hands of someone who was needing to rescue or avenge another. He had used it, not his wand as most thought, when defeating the man who had once been his best friend. A man he would certainly not rather think about right now. Avenging his sister's death was what drove the staff's power that day.

Today, as he held it in his hands, he knew it would work. He knew it would serve his purposes. He could feel its warmth spreading through his fingers as they flexed against the wood. It was a long, wooden thing, with a jewel on the end that glowed in different colors. When he had fought his old friend, it was blue. Today, it was ebony black and emerald green.

He stood, whispered to his familiar, and disappeared in a burst of flame.

He arrived among the Aurors. They seemed alarmed. Alarmed at his anger, and alarmed at his presence. They watched him carefully, noting, even, the staff in his hand. One even dared ask why he was there.

His answer was sufficient: Why shouldn't he be there?

The Auror seemed to have a reply. Something, most likely, along the lines of how dangerous it was or how improbable the rescue was. But as soon as their eyes met, the Auror said no more.

He straightened his staff, flexing his fingers around it again. His fury, this time, he refused to squelch. The Aurors automatically stepped back, and he turned toward the area they had cordoned off. With a quick sweep of his empty hand, he rid the wards that the Aurors had set up. With each step, the trees shook, the grass rippled. And this time, there was no Hogwarts to contain his anger.

The Death Eaters were, indeed, around, but he could not be stopped by them. He had taught nearly all of them, and he knew how each and every one fought. It was not difficult to anticipate their moves, or to realize what he could use to counter said spell. Within moments, he had reached the door to the fortress, his footsteps never stalling.

He could feel them; they were close. He walked through the entryway, stalling a few more Death Eaters along the way.

He made his way down the stairs, never spotting Snake-Face, the man who supposedly feared him so. The child he had taught, turned into the man that these two had nearly died for.

With his staff, he drew aside the wards that guarded the stairwell leading into the dungeons. He walked slowly down the stone steps, brushing aside a few guards again. His staff moved of nearly its own accord, refusing to allow the rescue to fail.

He finally reached the cells. He opened doors of Muggles, of wizards who were trapped for no reason. But the last cell was the one he was seeking. The last cell was the one without windows. The one that never received food. The one that always held the tortured. The cell with its occupants nearest Death's grasp. But he wasn't too late… he couldn't possibly be too late.

His staff found the final wards before he did. His staff stopped him, and led his arm to spin the wards into nothingness. They had been rather silent, and deeply hidden. He was grateful, yet again, for the circumstances that lent him this staff.

His slow walk continued, staff and senses wary of possible wards. He finally… _finally_ reached the final cell. He stood before it, hand and staff waving slowly over the door. He searched for further wards, not finding any. He tried, simply, to push the door open, but it did not give. He tried his hand's magic, his staff, but nothing gave.

He stared at it. It didn't seem to be warded, necessarily… With a sudden start, he knew what to do. He found the fury buried not-so-deep inside of him. He found the fear for their safety, the anger, and the loyalty. With a mighty _bang_, he unleashed it all on the door. The impact was not slow: It was a mighty eruption that blew a hole in the door's frame and, he hoped, not on anything inside.

His staff lit up from the force of his will, and light flooded into the tiny room.

He saw blood, he saw filth.

But what he heard renewed him.

"Professor?"

"Albus?"

Their eyes sparkled the same colors as the gem on the staff.


	2. Black

_I forgot the disclaimer on the first chapter, so this applies for the whole story. I do not own Harry Potter, or any of this. It belongs to JK Rowling and a number of other important people. I am just using the characters for my own entertainment… yup. Anyway. Enjoy._

_**Black**_

He was dying. Plain and simple. There was little breath left in his body, all was filled with pain. Agony when he moved, agony when he breathed. The boy was next to him. The boy he had hated; the boy he was dying for. His _master_ (he spit the word, even in his head) had not yet arrived again… and the two in the dungeon's last cell had both heard the attempts of others to rescue them. It was all rather futile, and he wished they'd stop trying.

They'd heard the dying scream of one, and that, alone, had nearly broken the boy. The boy… he didn't understand the boy. Didn't understand those green eyes. The green of the killing curse, and the green of _her_ eyes. He was like good and evil mixed in one violent package. And yet… it wasn't as violent as he'd expected. The boy's weakness did not appear to be his evil side, his arrogant side like his father's, but something else. His loyalty.

Loyalty could be a weakness, he knew. It wasn't hard to understand the impacts of loyalty as a weakness when one lived his whole life based on the still-fierce loyalty to a woman who died long ago. It was what kept him going every day, what kept him fighting this horrid war. Her voice echoed in his ears, her hair felt within hand's reach, and her eyes were always there when he was doing something wrong… It had just gotten easier to ignore their disappointment and focus more on their simple existence.

Those eyes had been there when he had stood in front of his _master_, watching as the snake presented the boy. Watching as the creature tortured the boy. Then, he had been invited to torture the boy. He had not been tempted to do the boy true harm… don't doubt that. But as he had stood, and as the eyes appeared, he soon realized that he couldn't even pretend to torture the boy.

His answer in the negative had earned him yet another set of green eyes looking towards him and his first round of pain. The two sets of equivalent eyes drove him through the next rounds, and even the next. He was soon picked up with the now-unconscious boy and tossed into the last dungeon cell… the cell that meant Death was near.

The boy had been breathing when they'd been thrown into the cell, he'd checked that much before he had collapsed into blackness. When he awoke, the boy was still alive and unconscious, but there was still nothing he could do. He knew a few wandless healing skills, but all were currently beyond the scope of his magical reserves. So he lay, curled up near the boy.

He heard nothing from the boy until they both began to hear the screams of the Aurors. The boy was silent until the fourth cry sounded. The boy had cried for the werewolf, recognizing the scream as his. Against all possibility, the boy had stood. Actually _stood_. The boy had been tortured more than he, with worse curses, and he found the strength to stand? What was worse, he didn't just stand. He ran to the wall nearest the outdoors and began pounding on the wall, battered fists hitting hard stone.

It didn't take the boy long to collapse from utter exhaustion. He was astounded by the boy's sheer determination to reach the werewolf.

The boy's collapse was accompanied by desperate sobs. There it was again, that loyalty. The boy had given his heart to so many, and it was costing him now.

He watched the boy, watched him sob, watch him pound the cobbled stone, his knuckles bleeding, his hands being reduced to pulps of torn skin, blood, and possibly even bone.

He could feel no more agony for the boy. His own was plenty, and he wondered if the boy could even feel his ripped hands anymore.

Suddenly, there were blastings… much closer. The boy stopped pounding, and tried to stand again.

Standing didn't work, so the boy simply shouted. Shouted for the person unknown to turn away. Shouted for them to leave.

The silence wards, he knew, would prevent this. Their savior would never make it all the way to them, so he didn't even bother waste breath telling the boy to turn around… tell the boy to stop hoping, in his deepest of hearts, that the unknown someone would rescue them. It would not happen. Simply would not.

He heard the explosions, carefully crafted, carefully controlled, come nearer… closer to the silent, the deadly ward that covered only this cell. He heard other cell doors open, others that could walk, could stand, cry in freedom. Still, he held no hope for them, for the two that were so close to sacrificing themselves for the war, for the cause.

The steps reached the silent ward, and they stopped. He braced himself for the explosion, for the boy's screams, but none came. There was a very soft _swish_ and the steps continued. He was astounded. No one had ever passed that ward… no one had ever even _found_ that ward. The _master_ himself had put it up, and it was difficult to find, let alone take down.

The steps reached the door, and the _swishes _came again. He had not even entertained the thought that this could be the _master_. That… thing… wouldn't have entered the same. But who could this be? The unknown figure tried to manually push on the door, which, of course, didn't work. The boy tried to stand again, tried to help, but trembling limbs collapsed before he could tell the boy that it was futile. The door was another one of his _master's_ inventions, and could not be opened.

He heard _swishes_, as from a wand, and then more _swishes_, and then nothing. Silence.

Out of the silence, rather suddenly, came an explosion. A pure shattering of the air around them, of the door, of the wards, of everything. The boy, who had been quite near the door, was thrown back, near into his arms. He righted the boy in a near-unconscious effort, eyes focused on the spot where the door had been. The boy shifted in his arms, hiding his pain again, his sharp breaths coming in gasps, and turned to the door. Both of them, emerald and ebony, watching the door.

The smoke cleared slowly, giving particular way to a light that formed rather suddenly. The first thing he saw was a staff, long and wooden, that he had never seen before. The gem on the top end of it glowed green and black, same as the boy's eyes… and same as his eyes. A hand was clenched just below the gem. A hand decorated in deep midnight-blue robes. White hair and a white beard whipped about, dancing in the wind, in the emotion. Ice-blue eyes crackled in power, in anger.

His eyes widened.

At nearly the same time the boy managed to whisper, "Professor?" he whispered, "Albus?"


	3. Green

_**Chapter Three: Green**_

The last few hours (or had it been days?) had been so long. He hadn't expected to end up in front of the creature. In front of the creature that was so like him, and yet so different in the same way. He certainly hadn't expected to be tortured, to feel agony unmet even by hundreds of the _Crucio_s he had suffered at this same creature's hand in the graveyard.

He had heard his parents' only living friend scream. He had tried to help, tried to get out, but it was no use. His body betrayed him. He wasn't strong enough, even, to stand. He had clawed the floor, to the point where his hands were rather useless – not that he could feel them, anyway – and he had collapsed to the cold stone again. Until the footsteps.

He had screamed, screamed at the footsteps to stay away. It wasn't safe, it never was around him. But they kept closer, trodding ever more toward him… toward them. He had heard the hand at the door, trying to breach it. His companion (there was nothing else to call him) had not moved, but he had begun to crawl again, this time to the door. He had to at least _try_ to help open the door, somehow. The explosion had been unexpected, and he'd fallen against his companion, entangled himself in the other's arms.

His companion managed, somehow, to untangle them. They watched the door, together. They saw the completely astounding sight of their rescuer at the door.

He felt himself being lifted, and his body screamed at the movement, but he didn't shift. He was tucked into the midnight blue robes, finding only safety and comfort. He knew his companion was there, too, tucked into the robes. He didn't imagine the impossibility of them both being carried by one man, an old one at that. But, perhaps, considering who it was doing the carrying, it was such impossibility.

They moved slowly, their two bodies being carefully taken from the place where Death still resided, its lingering scent still hanging in the air, but not quite reaching them.

He saw light, light almost too bright. He resisted closing his eyes: After time in the dungeon, one needed all the light they could get. He saw others, saw the one he had screamed for… alive or not, he couldn't tell. He wanted to scream again, to cry his name, but his mouth had no voice. His body had no energy. And the robes felt so good, the midnight blue embracing him.

He saw others as they walked, gaping at them, whispering. But he was used to whispers.

He felt a lifting, as if a defying of gravity. He saw the sky rather than the ground, but was not scared. He was still encased in blue, and he still felt the warm breath of his companion against his bare back.

The sky surrounded him for a while longer, until he felt himself falling… slowly. He saw the turrets of the castle rather than the blue of the sky. The whisper of the trees rather than the gritting of the stone.

They touched ground. He could fill the slight jerk under his feet. The steps began, walking toward the castle. Their savior taking them to the place that had been his first home. The place he would never hate going back to.

They went up the stone steps, into the entryway. Down a hall, another. Toward what he knew to be the hospital wing.

The footsteps stopped, and he heard the gasping of the nurse, the one he'd seen more times than he'd wished. The one he didn't want to see now.

He felt his companion leave his side and gasped, drawing the robes in tighter with one of his disfigured hands. He heard soft whispers, telling him to let go. He couldn't. These robes were the first comfort he'd felt in a long while. The first thing he'd truly trusted. How could he let them go now? His agony was nothing. He could deal. He always had.

He whimpered as old hands gently peeled his ripped ones away from the robes, from his source of comfort. He wanted to cry as he was laid flat on a bed, but the woman didn't touch him. His savior did, whispering words as the man held his hands.

He sobbed, as much as he possibly could, as he felt skin knit back together over misshapen and mismatched bones. A potion was gently poured down his throat, and he could nearly feel his bones knitting themselves back together, hurting much more than when they'd first been broken. He whimpered again, missing the comfort of the robes and their security.

The wrinkled hands pushed his jaw gently open again, and he felt more potions being poured down his throat. He swallowed them reflexively, but felt no better. Hands passed over his body, easing the pain only slightly. Time passed, as the hands and the potions continued. Things changed little, until the hands finally settled and left.

He felt alone… until his fingers found the robes again. He ignored the whispers that weren't, perhaps, whispers, telling him to leave the fabric be, telling him to stop moving his newly forming bones. He cared not. He wrapped his fingers around the fabric, reveling again in its protective qualities. He turned his head, his unseeing eyes, into the fabric and, after a moment, the cloth came closer to him, giving him the option to stop moving, which he took. He whimpered himself into what may have been sleep as the cloth took his other senses away.

When he came back to awareness, the cloth was still there. His fingers felt relatively normal, though they still prickled slightly when he moved them. The cloth shifted when he moved his fingers, and he heard whisperings again. Asking him if he was okay, saying that his former companion was alive. Indeed, he thought he could see the other's body lain out on a different bed.

He felt strangely disconnected from himself, from the world. He heard the whispers, felt the old hands. The woman approached, but he pulled away, buried himself deeper into the cloth. More whispers, then sleep again.

He woke into the cloth yet again. It felt wet, tear-stained. He lay and listened, hearing the whispers from his savior and the woman. And another voice.

He sat up rather abruptly, settling his back into the cloth, with blurry eyes searching for his companion. The cloth shifted in surprise, and the woman began whispering louder. The third was silent.

He watched the third silently, searching for a way to convey emotion, to convey gratitude. To convey some sort of thanks for the attempt to stop the torture, for the torture his companion had taken. He tried to convey all that with a simple glance. He wished he had his glasses, wished he could see the other's eyes, but his glasses had since been destroyed. His savior, as if reading his thoughts, handed him a pair, reaching around carefully to place them on his face.

He could see his companion clearly now. He could see the bandages, the bruises that almost made him cry out. His hand simply clenched the cloth tighter, and he tried, again, to give the man a look of gratitude. His companion's eyes narrowed, though not in anger. In something else. Perhaps it was confusion.

Unable to convince his legs to move, he stretched an arm out. His companion stood, walked slowly toward him. Their fingers touched.

All three intertwined. The savior, the companion, and the boy.

The companion understood, finally, how deeply the others cared. How strong their loyalty was. How powerful it could be.

The savior cared about nothing but the two. Cared not about tales of fate, not about men in masks, not about snakes. Only about the two.

The boy was wrapped in comfort. The comfort of other's fingers, and the comfort of the cloth. The promise that another was there, that two others were there.

And so they were, for a very long time.


	4. Red

_This chapter is short and rather AU. It's not written from exactly the same point of view as the others, but it is similar. I decided I needed some kind of chapter to tie it all up, so here it is. Hope you enjoyed this little tale._

_**Chapter Four: Red**_

Destroying the snake speaker was not difficult. The red-eyed one understood so little. He understood not the power of love or the power of loyalty. He understood not how three people could stand side by side. One with lightning-blue eyes, one with eyes of the darkest black, and the third with eyes of killing curse green.

He did not understand how, together, they could harness the power inside them. The power of love, of friendship, of bravery and courage, and of loyalty. How they could form the power into something else, something more. Something that channeled not through their wands or the wooden staff on the ground, but through their hearts, through their souls.

And although the boy was writhing on the ground in pain, in agony at the two warring souls, it was clear to everyone except the red-eyed one who would win. The boy's love, the boy's loyalty burst through. Through the darkness, through the pain. Although the screams seemed to rend the boy inside out, he could survive it. And he would survive it.

* * *

In the end, he did survive it. He did more than just survive… he lived. The boy became a man; he had children, a wife, a job. He managed to nearly forget those pain-filled days. They didn't even haunt him in dreams: Love, he had been taught, was more powerful than fear.

The companion learned not just of loyalty. He learned of love, of compassion. He met another, one that could mean nearly as much to him as the green-eyed mother of the boy that he had once been prisoner with, the one who had been his first love and his first great loss. The one whose eyes he never saw again.

The savior never demonstrated as much loyalty to any as he did those two boys. The staff remained hidden in the castle, never to be touched again. It belonged solely to him, and would die with his death. Death he was not frightened of; he rather embraced life while he still had it left to live.

Sometimes, blue, black, and green would find each other, seek each other out. Green's fingers would touch the cloth, remembering. Black would smile lightly, more than he had ever before. And blue would twinkle as he always did, but with an almost frightening intensity.

Red never showed itself again.


End file.
